Heroine Addiction

by Matarese, Jennifer

  Granted, most hermits don't possess the ability to teleport to Thailand for genuine takeout, but the sentiment stands.

  Two days after Graham's death, the Brigade holds a public memorial service in Oktoberfest Park. I only see the pictures later on by accident, the photos scattered carelessly across the Internet like tiny surprising black holes for unsuspecting mourners to tumble into. The shots show a silent sea of citizens dressed in black crowded into three-quarters of a square mile, hanging from trees or perched on playground equipment when elbow room becomes a commodity.

  It's a lovely memorial, or so I hear. From what Dixie tells me later on, the President even sends a nice flower arrangement.

  I don't go. Neither do my parents, for that matter, or any other Noble family member. Or Morris, as far as I know. They probably skip out for the same reason I do. Just because I didn't get along with Graham all that well doesn't mean I'm game for turning his memorial into even more of a media circus simply by showing up.

  Serena feels the same way, it seems. She shows her face in the crowd, of course, but Sam is nowhere to be seen in the multitude of photos from the ceremony. I don't blame her, really. I'm not sure I'd want to bring a little boy who looks as though he fell out of the Noble family tree and bounced off every branch on the way down to a Noble family memorial laden with eager photographers, either.

  Thinking about Sam rubs against a sore spot I didn't know was there, so I try not to. It's hard enough avoiding the memorial coverage, which pokes at that sore spot with a sharp brutal jab. But Sam is Graham, except smaller and presumably less prone to start arguments with me.

  Sam is still here, and Graham isn't.

  There is a saying the ancient Spartans used to tell their superheroes before they went off to battle: “Come back wearing your cape, or underneath it.” Graham would have been proud to follow that motto to his grave.

  Like it or not, Graham was a better hero than he thought he was. Better than I've ever been, I can't help but think.

  I add that to the list of things I try not to dwell on. I use up more tissues that way.

  Mom's publicist issues a concise statement the morning of the memorial that excuses the entire family from public displays of our collective grief and commends Graham for his heroism with all of the crisp pride of your average parent commending their child for passing their classes or not getting arrested. Well, of course he was a good hero, I think with a pained smile as I read it a week later. You don't get exultant kudos for doing something you're supposed to do.

  The security camera footage from the morgue leaks the day before the memorial, a stop-motion series of painfully clear freeze-frames in black and white of Morris and Dad embracing. Mom's public statement doesn't mention that.

  Once they realize I won't be emerging to drop any more juicy family secrets for them to publish, or to expound on the one currently hogging all the headlines, the reporters gradually begin to dissipate from the area surrounding my building on the fourth day, scurrying off to whichever rock they currently reside underneath. By the fifth day of my self-imposed retreat, the sidewalks are devoid of anyone who doesn't live in town.

  It's not much of an improvement.

  I waste away most of the week with my first genuine vacation in years. You'd be amazed how utterly the prospect of packing a bag and flying off to some far-off paradise loses some of its appeal when you can go to Germany for chocolate cake for dessert and follow it up with a moonlight stroll along an Australian beach whenever you feel like it. I wander around in my silk pajamas and breeze through every book in my pile of unread novels and never, ever watch television, figuring it's probably best for my sanity.

  For the most part, everybody I know leaves me to myself. Nate sends me a funny greeting card about an ugly man who unfortunately put on his thong backwards but - even more unfortunately - couldn't really tell. He doesn't sign it, but I recognize his angular handwriting slashing my address across the face of the envelope.

  My parents and Morris have the decency to give me breathing room. I dream one night that they've achieved that wonderful calming silence on their end by Dad and Morris locking my mother in a closet for the week, and only barely convince myself not to call and make sure that's not the case.

  Dixie and Tara handle the cafe by themselves, the low bustling hum from below keeping me from having a minor mental breakdown and jetting down there to take over again. I doubt either one of them would be willing to let me in the state they must know I'm in, even though they leave me blissfully to myself. I fall asleep a couple of times in the middle of the afternoon, curled up on my carpet, a paperback in one hand and my head resting on a pillow, lulled into a peaceful nap by the everyday sounds from below that I miss with a bone-deep ache.

  On the fifth day, my doorbell rings.

  “I brought you milk and bread and a couple of pomegranates because I know you like those and they were on sale,” Hazel says after shoving the bulging paper grocery sack into my arms. “And there's sweet potato chips in there, too. Oh, and I got you fudgsicles, and don't start, okay? I figured you could use some chocolate after the week you've had, so ...”

  Her voice trails off as she scuffs the sidewalk with the heel of her sneaker, kicking at invisible pebbles.

  I clutch with an awkward grip at the heavy bag. “You didn't have to.”

  She shoots me a meaningful look.

  “But thanks,” I quickly add. “I mean, thank you. I just ...” I don't know what else to say. I didn't ask for her to go on a grocery run. I'm definitely running low on supplies, the racks in my fridge almost bare, my cupboards accumulating empty space. I stand there, barefoot and fidgeting. “You got me fudgsicles?”

  She scowls, her pale cheeks a darkening pink. “Well, they make me feel better,” she says. “Screw my stupid diet.”

  It's true, I remember that much, and it makes me laugh, bright and happy in spite of myself.

  Hazel takes the opportunity to look me over for breaks or bandages, for injuries the news reporters might have missed in their obsessive analysis of the events at the morgue. She doesn't have to say as much, not with the determined set of her jaw or the assessing tilt of her head. From behind, I'll bet she looks sullen and introverted, tucking into herself the way she does, angling her hips and shoulders until all anyone will be able to see is the back of some midriff-baring tank top, her tattooed arms, and the untamed bleached scruff of her hair. It's a stark difference looking at her expression full on, the thinly veiled anxiety shadowing her dark blue eyes.

  “Hey,” I say, my voice low.

  Her gaze jerks up to meet mine.

  “Hey, I'm all right. Not a scratch on me. Not even a little one.”

  Our smiles emerge from nowhere, small and hesitant, and Hazel nods. “Yeah, okay, guilty as charged,” she admits. “But I still say you need the fudgsicles to boost your mood.”

  “I'll take that under advisement.”

  She reaches up to give her neck a self-conscious rub before softly tossing a goodbye my way. When she walks off, she's less tense than she usually is, a bounce to her coltish legs that makes her look vaguely like a happy gazelle. My grin widens before I shut the apartment door, spreading against my wishes.

  Being girlfriends again might be a mistake we should avoid at all costs, but friends … yes, we should be able to handle being friends. You know, if we don't tear each other to shreds first.

  When I finally have enough of filling myself full of questionably healthy snacks and cheap mass-market paperbacks about women who can't decide between jumping the impossibly attractive man in their lives and beating the tar out of fictional monsters, going back to work feels a little less like punishment. I haven't watched television in days, and avoiding the internet is the only way to keep from confronting the inevitable glut of emails from people I'd rather not talk to right now. If I'm going to peek out into the world on my own terms, I plan on starting with the cafe and working my way outward.

  I get up bright an
d early on the seventh day, my hair already washed and ready for styling, my red and white picnic pattern off-the-shoulder dress gently ironed. I don't have to go, of course. The others have been dealing with the cafe just fine on their own. It hasn't exploded, it hasn't crumbled underneath me, it hasn't been attacked by mutant alligators from the sewers or anything, at least as far as I know. I could stay up here forever if Hazel keeps showing up with groceries and I can finally scrounge up the urge to shop on the internet again.

  I get ready anyway, taking a half-hour longer than I normally do. I blame the trips I keep making to my apartment windows, scoping out for roving reporters who might be hiding in doorways or dark corners.

  When I reach the front door of the cafe at precisely six-thirty, Tara's already there, her dirty blond hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. She gapes at me as I approach, the keys to the front door fumbling in her grasp. Then her sunny smile peeks out. “You lost?”

  I stop a few feet away, feigning confusion. “I still work here, right?”

  “On occasion,” she jokes. Unlocking the door, she holds it open. “Go on, lazybones. In you go.”

  Grinning, I walk past.

  Benny arrives soon enough, bleary-eyed and unshaven as always. When he spots me, he says something under his breath I should presumably be glad I can't hear and heads off to hide himself away in the kitchen. Not long after, Dixie arrives, stumbling into the cafe and nearly falling flat on her face when she sees me putting fresh pastries out under the glass cases on the counter.

  “Oh, hey,” she blurts out. “You exist. I was starting to think I made you up or something.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “I thought it was funny,” Tara calls out from the kitchen.

  Benny rumbles something that makes Tara burst into high-pitched giggles.

  Some things never change.

  It doesn't take me long to get back into the swing of things, if I do say so myself. It helps that the morning is like it always is, a steady stream of customers stopping just long enough for tea or cappuccino before running off to work. I keep my eyes off the local newspapers in the reading rack by the cash register, intent on avoiding the situation just a little bit longer.

  The door closes hard around noon, the bell over it jingling a happy greeting, and I turn just in time to come face to face with Morris and my father.

  Dad has never been to my cafe. Neither has my mother, at least not as herself. But with my father it hurt more than it should. At least Dad seems to like me. It's a bit depressing when your father's former mortal enemy shows up regularly at your cafe for pie and your own mother can always find something more important to do.

  The entire cafe goes silent.

  “Aren't you supposed to be in jail?” I say to Morris, unable to completely stifle the teasing tone sneaking into my voice.

  He waves a dismissive hand. “Pish tosh.”

  “You built a lair.”

  He leans close in a futile attempt not to be heard and stage-whispers, “I built an isolated office for my new probationary defense contract with the Superhero Licensing Bureau's weaponry division. It's certainly not my fault if someone else uses it for something other than defending the moon against the squid armies of Betelguese.”

  I can only stand in silence and try desperately not to allow my jaw to drop. As ludicrous as it is to imagine the SLB contracting with a known supervillain, it also makes an odd sort of sense. Avoiding the grainy photo stills doesn't mean I haven't heard what they contain, haven't caught whispered mockery that dies as I approach. Morris sinking into Dad's trembling embrace, their famous faces tucked into each other's shoulders, wrapped up in one another just long enough for frenetic emotions to bleed away and leave them raw and open to a cheap twenty-year-old security camera.

  It scares me on some level, that if the SLB's faraway watchers peeled away the curtain of my father's powers and peeked inside, they would have seen the same comforting embrace years ago, and if so didn't lift a finger to stop it. Instead they handed it a contract and told it to build giant robots.

  I live in a strange world full of strange people, honestly.

  “Morris,” Dad says, his low voice a warning.

  Ignoring the venomous looks being shot their way from the nearby booths, Morris leans back to stand beside my father, his lips forming a close-mouthed mockery of a Cheshire grin as he elbows Dad in the side. With a small “Oomph,” Dad forces a tight smile.

  “Hi,” I say.

  It takes him a moment, but he finally says, “Hi, Vera.”

  “Would you like something to eat? We've got fresh blueberry pie this morning.”

  Morris beams, absently giving Dad's arm a pat. “Oh, you'll have to try that. Vera makes wonderful pie. It's to die for.”

  Someone else in the cafe makes a muffled choking sound. I decide to ignore both the throttled sound from behind me and Morris's assumption that I'm the one slaving away over a hot oven and whipping up our baked goods every day.

  “I'll have the peach cobbler, my dear, and a pot of my usual,” Morris says, then reaches out to grab onto Dad's hand, leading him towards the only empty booth left in the place. They sit on the same side of the booth, sharing a bench, Morris completely at ease and Dad staring in a low-key sort of awe at their joined hands resting on the table.

  The other customers stare at the both of them, openly hostile, discomfort simmering in the air. I bite my bottom lip as I gather their food and serve them, wondering if I'm going to have to hold off a roomful of office workers and small-town retirees by wielding hot pots of orange pekoe tea like samurai swords.

  Breaking the silence, Mrs. Santamaria struggles to her feet, propping herself up with her walker.

  I can see it coming, so it's not worth fighting it. I hold the door open for her, not bothering to stoop to faking a “Come back soon!” and a cheery smile for her. She won't buy it and presumably won't appreciate the polite white lie, not with the snide glare she shoots Dad and Morris's way as she scoots past me out the door.

  I suppose I should be grateful that she leaves enough money behind to pay for her meal.

  “To hell with this,” I hear someone say.

  A moment later, Mr. Carroll and his son toss money on their table and walk out, taking care to avoid looking Dad and Morris's way.

  “Sorry, Vera,” Mr. Carroll says as he leaves, not sounding sorry at all. “My appetite just up and left me.”

  A few more people trail out, making sure to pay before they go, most of them murmuring apologies to me even as they glare at my father and Morris before departing. I stare after them as they leave, wondering if this is social obligation or fear or genuine disgust, if they're leaving because they want to or because they just don't have the backbone to stay.

  Or perhaps I'm just being far more optimistic about the rest of the human race than normal for a change.

  Dad and Morris pass each other somewhat unsettled looks but don't move. Dixie hovers behind the counter, swiping absently at spots that aren't there but saying nothing. Tara and Benny argue quietly to themselves in the kitchen, but don't come out or look our way.

  I glance over at Hazel's grandmother, her face buried in the depths of a knitting magazine. “What about you?” I sigh.

  She doesn't lift her head. “I'll take a chai, and keep them coming.”

  Aggravated shouting rises outside as I go to fetch Mrs. Whiting her chai, an enthusiastic string of colorful profanities growing in volume as the speaker moves closer. Hazel appears in front of the window as I'm handing her grandmother her drink. Hazel turns on her heels, walking backwards as she flips off one of the customers leaving the cafe, loudly implying something foul about their ancestors and farm animals. I can't imagine that will help with return business, I think with a wince.

  Hazel stomps inside with a low wordless grumble and slams the door shut behind her. Sniffing the air in thinly veiled irritation, she gives Dad and Morris a frustrated look. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she
was annoyed at the two of them for dragging her into this mess, regardless of the fact that no one asked her to defend them. I stare at her, blinking in confusion.

  “Will you kick me out if I ask for a bottle of water?” she asks.

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, come on then,” she says, beckoning with one hand in a gimme gesture as she flops down on the couch in the right front window and grabs a book from the nearest bookshelf. “You know how I like it.”

  “Room temperature, straight from the bottle, no lemon?”

  She winks without smiling, then lowers her gaze to the hardcover murder mystery in her hand. “That's my girl,” she murmurs.

  I roll my eyes, but bring her one of the unchilled water bottles from behind the counter, tossing it her way before sitting down on the other side of Dad and Morris's booth. I steal a plump blueberry from Dad's pie plate, grinning as I pop it into my mouth. He frowns, no heat behind it.

  “Oh, don't give me that look,” I say. “You two just scared off most of my customers.”

  Morris makes a disgusted noise and waves a hand dismissively. “More trouble than they're worth, if you ask me.”

  Just for that, I steal the rest of his peach cobbler.

  Dad silently offers Morris the rest of his pie, and the two of them share a look, cautious and intimate. I shouldn't be here. I'm sure I shouldn't. I lift my gaze to see both Hazel and her grandmother watching us, watching me, and I look away before I can tell whether they're seeing Dad and Morris and getting ideas. Now's not the time to dwell on it. I'm still on vacation, at least in some small ways, and it can wait.

  I savor the silence, the sweet warm silence, and pour my father his tea.